


Do You Trust Me?

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Dates, Bets & Wagers, First Dates, M/M, Philip Anderson Being a Dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 23:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12922284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg's determined to turn the tables on Anderson, but he needs Mycroft's help. In the process, he might find that Mycroft has turned the tables on him instead.





	Do You Trust Me?

_Do you trust me, Mycroft?_

_That is a loaded question indeed, Detective Inspector. MH_

_It’s Greg, as you full well know. Answer the question. It’s important._

_In that case, yes. MH_

_We need to talk. Not about Sherlock._

_A car will be waiting for you in ten minutes. MH_

_Thank you._

 

Greg stepped into the car, not at all surprised to see Mycroft waiting for him.

“How can I help you, Greg?” Mycroft asked with emphasis on his name.

Greg stared at him for a long moment. “Do you want the back story or not?”

“If you believe it to be helpful.”

“Okay. In as few words as possible: I lost a bet with Anderson. Either I ask you out next time you come into the office, or the forfeit is Sherlock. For a month.”

Mycroft blinked at Greg. It was the longest Greg had ever seen him thinking for. He often paused for dramatic effect, but Greg could actually see his mind at work. “I foresee a number of reasons you may see this as a problem. What is it specifically you need from me?”

“I wanted to see if it was alright with you. Normally I’d tell Anderson to fuck off, but he’s told me that if I back out he’ll tell the Superintendent and Sherlock will be banned for good.”

“You do know I could have him transferred,” Mycroft murmured.

“I know,” replied Greg shortly.

“So you are asking my permission?” Mycroft said.

“Well, yeah. I mean, my main concern is telling Anderson no, and not being able to get Sherlock on scene for a month.” Greg paused then added, “I’d be worried about how he’d cope, you know?”

Mycroft, whose face had steeled at the first sentence, stared at Greg for a long moment. Another long thinking moment, Greg noted. “Your concern is Sherlock?” Mycroft repeated.

“Well, yeah.”

“Not yourself?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” Greg dismissed the question with an easy smile.

“I expect that there will be a certain amount of mocking if you go through with Mr. Anderson’s plan, Greg.”

Greg shrugged. “Of course.” He grinned. “Nothing I haven’t weathered before.” His smile faded as Mycroft’s face remained impassive. “Don’t worry about it. None of them know you at all. They’d be lucky to get a chance with a dapper bloke like you.” He was hoping to make Mycroft smile, or at least react in some way, but there was a kernel of truth in his words.

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. The silence stretched on like warm caramel before he said suddenly, “And you thought it best to inform me of the plan rather than catching me by surprise, as was the obvious intention.”

“Well, yeah, of course. Didn’t want to offend you. I’d hate it if you stopped talking to me or something,” Greg replied.

Mycroft looked puzzled for a minute, before saying decisively, “In that case, the main issue is whether you trust me, Greg.”

“Yeah, I do,” Greg said. The conversation had gotten slightly away from him somewhere – wasn’t he asking that question of Mycroft instead of the other way around?

“Excellent. In that case, I will see you tomorrow morning at,” he consulted his mobile, “Ten fifteen AM. Please ensure Mr. Anderson will be there.” He looked up at Greg now, the calm blue eyes meeting wary brown. “Thank you for your consideration of my brother and I. Tomorrow I would suggest you follow my lead.”

His tone was clearly a dismissal, so Greg just said, “Okay. See you, then,” and stepped back out, blinking for a moment at the usual vertigo. It was always odd getting into Mycroft’s car, having a whole conversation and getting back out without going anywhere. He wondered what Mycroft’s plan was, then decided he didn’t want to know. The element of surprise was obviously important. He just had to do his part – asking Mycroft Holmes out on a date. Not the easy part, he thought. Not at all.

+++

Greg had dressed this morning for his ten fifteen appointment. No time for a haircut, but he’d at least put some product in, made sure it didn’t look too much like he’d rolled around in a haystack. His second best suit, a decent tie and a properly clean shirt. He’d debated polishing his shoes but drawn the line there; he settled for a quick wipe over, so they were at least clean. He’d sent a memo to his team, as per the conditions of his lost bet, informing them that he’d asked Mycroft to come in for something just after ten.

Unsurprisingly, the number of people who seemed to know about this had swelled alarmingly, and when Sally came to collect him at ten fourteen and fifty seconds, she was smirking. The murmur of voiced stopped the second Greg stepped across the threshold of his office; at least twenty people stood in the immediate vicinity, not the least of which was Mycroft.

Anderson was visible, standing by Sally’s desk, arms crossed and not even trying to hide the victorious smirk on his face. He caught Greg’s eye and gestured to Mycroft, urging him to do it. Greg gave him a ‘cool it’ glare, which only made Anderson smirk harder.

“Mycroft,” Greg greeted him, heart beating faster. This was like being on stage. “No umbrella this morning.”

“Regrettably not,” Mycroft replied. “May I ask what brings me here? You were not clear in your summons.”

Straight into it, then, Greg thought to himself. Good think you thought about nothing else for the last sixteen hours or so. “Actually,” Greg started, making himself meet Mycroft’s blue eyes (they seemed to be encouraging him, which he grasped like a lifebuoy), “I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight.”

If it wasn’t for the thundering of his pulse, Greg was sure he would not have heard a sound. Nobody was pretending to work, or even hold a conversation; every face was turned to them.

“Are you proposing a date, Greg?” Mycroft asked, mild surprise in his tone.

“I am,” Greg said, following Mycroft’s lead.

Unexpectedly, Mycroft broke into a beaming smile. “I would be delighted, Greg.”

He stepped closer, bringing up his hands to cup Greg’s face, eyes holding on, saying _trust me, trust me_. “I have been waiting for this moment,” Mycroft murmured against Greg’s lips, before pressing his mouth to Greg’s. It was chaste yet firm, completely inappropriate for the middle of a working office but not offensively over the top.

Greg’s eyes had drifted closed, and he registered that his hands were cupping Mycroft’s elbows.

Mycroft pulled away, smiled warmly at Greg as he opened his eyes, and reluctantly draw his hands away from Greg’s face.

“Tonight, then?” Greg asked, his voice cracking.

“Please send the details to my phone,” Mycroft replied. He smiled again, then turned and walked away, as unruffled as ever, ignoring the speechless crowd blatantly watching his departure.

Greg was still quite stunned, until he glanced around and saw a sea of faces waiting for his reaction. As the grin spread across his face, he turned to Anderson, who looked like a goldfish, mouth gaping open. “I guess I should thank you, mate,” he said. “Hot date tonight, turns out.”

As he reached his office door, Anderson blurted out, “But you were married! To a woman!”

A titter ran through the crowd at this. Greg turned to look at him, pity at his small-mindedness colouring his expression and words. “Yeah, I like guys too. Not that it’s any of your business, but now you know.” He stepped closer, his next words for Anderson alone, though he knew others would strain to hear and pass them on as gossip. “If you bring our off duty bets into this office again, I will personally see to it that the Jersey Islands have their very own forensic technician stationed for a long, long stretch.” Greg turned and walked away, not trusting himself to hold it together any longer. Or to not punch Anderson. Both urges were pretty strong right now.

When he’d closed his office door and pulled the blinds shut, Greg slumped into his chair. What the fuck had just happened? He’d hoped that Mycroft might let him down gently, or possibly agree to it and quietly pull out at the last minute. Instead he’d been far more interested than Greg had ever thought possible. Was it an act? Did he think he was helping Greg by making it look like his proposal was warmly accepted?

As he wondered where to from here, Greg felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

 

_I hope I did not overstep our trust agreement. Please be assured I have no expectations of a personal nature. MH_

 

Greg half laughed and half groaned, dropping his face in his hand.

_I just thanked Anderson for getting me a date with you and confirmed that I’m bisexual. Pretty sure we’re going to need to have at least one dinner to figure out our break up story._

 

The response was a long time coming. Greg had started doodling nervously on his blotter, the line of tiny dancing men long and straggling before the blinking ellipsis was replaced with a message.

 

_I have no plans for this evening. Shall we meet? I can send a car. MH_

_Sure. Pick me up from home though. I’ll want to get changed._

_Did you have a location in mind? MH_

_Yep. Dress down, Mycroft._

_I hope you are joking. MH_

_Not at all. See you at 7._

 

Right. Greg thought. Dinner tonight with Mycroft. Given their conversations today, it wasn’t clear if this was strategy meeting masquerading as a date, or a date masquerading as a strategy meeting. Either way it would be interesting.

+++

Greg was ready and waiting by half-six, which was ridiculous. He’d used the knowledge of his evening plans to his advantage, knocking out at 5 on the dot. His team had been quiet all day, and not a word had been spoken about his very public conversation with Mycroft. Greg was privately smug that Anderson’s plan to humiliate him had backfired. The man was a juvenile tosser but he was as good as his job as anyone else. Greg had grinned to himself at that assessment. Christ, if that was the best he could say about Anderson…but Greg wasn’t going to spend a second more on thinking about him. Not when he had a date (meeting?) with Mycroft in less than two hours.

He’d showered and shaved when he arrived home, spending far more time than he really should choosing his outfit. He’d picked a restaurant, something far removed from the calibre Mycroft generally chose. That was the point, of course – Greg was never really comfortable in that kind of environment, and tonight’s meeting (date?) would definitely be a conversation for which he wanted to be as comfortable as possible. Constantly having to think about whether his elbows were on the table, or which fork to use, would not help him concentrate. After ten minutes agonising (a fact to which he would never, ever admit), Greg told himself to choose his favourite shirt and jeans and be done with it.

And so he was sitting here on the sofa, waiting for Mycroft with nothing else to distract him from the question – did he consider this a date or a meeting? Obviously he’d set himself up a bit at work, with his reckless comments to Anderson, but where had they come from? Greg had to admit to himself that what he’d said to Anderson was true. None of it was anyone’s business, and Greg wasn’t sure if he wanted them to think he was winding Anderson up or not. The truth was, when he thought about a date with Mycroft, his heart beat faster, his mouth became dry and he knew his hands were shaking.

Greg had tolerated Mycroft for a long time before realising he genuinely liked the man. Admitting that his admiration went beyond the platonic was something he had put off for quite a while he’d been married, which had been a good excuse for avoidance. The months of singlehood since then had been more difficult, save for a single fact: Mycroft had never show the slightest bit of interest in him, or in anyone, as far as Greg could tell.

So where did that leave him?

Greg had no idea, but he knew one thing: he was not going to make any assumptions tonight. However the evening went, there would be conversation. Excruciating, embarrassing conversation if need be, but this was an opportunity to clear the air, at least on his side, and he would be a fool not to take it.

+++

The car arrived and Greg, who had been waiting in the vestibule, strode out to open the door.

“You might as well get out,” he said. “It’s so close there’s no point driving from here.”

Mycroft nodded, stepping out, again without his umbrella, Greg noticed.

“No umbrella again,” he said.

“I did not realise we would be walking any distance,” Mycroft explained.

Greg thought for a moment. “Is that why you didn’t have one today?” When Mycroft made a ‘partly yes, partly no’ shift of his head, Greg thought more, then accused him, “You knew you were going to kiss me and you’d need two hands.” When Mycroft’s face flushed a deep red, Greg grinned, which turned into a chuckle. “Oh, that’s funny,” he said. “You should have seen their faces after you left. It was hilarious.”

“I did observe on my way out that we had been somewhat noticeable.”

“I’m pretty sure Anderson told everyone he knew to be in our office this morning,” Greg told him. “He’s such a tosser.”

“Possibly not my favourite person at the Yard right now, no,” Mycroft replied, glancing sideways at Greg.

“Mine either, although without him we wouldn’t be here,” Greg found himself saying. He clammed up, berating his brain for suggesting such a flirtatious comment. What happened to play it cool, use your words, he thought to himself.

“We might have found ourselves here eventually,” Mycroft countered.

“Doubtful,” Greg replied. They walked in silence for a moment, Greg’s mind racing. Mycroft hadn’t declined his flirtation – in fact his comment was maddingly ambiguous. Was he saying that he might have asked Greg out of his own accord at some point? Or did he believe that Greg would have eventually asked him?

“Either way,” Greg said, “Right now, we’re here.” He stopped, indicating a small restaurant to his left.

“Excellent,” Mycroft said politely, and Greg chuckled.

“When was the last time you ate dumplings, Mycroft?”

“Outside of China? Never,” Mycroft replied. Greg shot him a quick grin before greeting the chef by name. They were shown to a table, and Greg waved off the menu, instead telling the waitress to bring his usual.

“No problem Greg,” she replied.

“You’re a regular,” Mycroft observed.

“Yep. Best dumplings in town. They’ll bring out a pile of them, then some rice and stuff, then more dumplings if we want them,” Greg said happily.

“Very well,” Mycroft said. He appeared to be more comfortable than Greg would have pegged him, given how different their surrounds were to the opulence of his club.

“So,” Greg said uncomfortably. Part of him wanted to dive right into a conversation about what the hell was happening here (date? Meeting? He had no idea anymore), the other part advised him to run screaming.

Mycroft solved the problem by speaking first. “Did you have a preference for how we continued this ruse?” he asked.

Well than answered that question, Greg thought to himself, ignoring the stab of disappointment that hit when Mycroft dismissed the possibility of this being a date. Ruse. So, not real, then.

“I assumed you would want it over as soon as possible, actually,” said Greg. Might as well be brutally honest. At least he’d have a chance of salvaging some kind of working relationship with Mycroft, even if it was just working together to keep Sherlock out of trouble.

“What gave you that impression?” Mycroft asked in surprise. It was the first real spontaneous reaction Greg remembered seeing from him, and from the haste with which he wiped the expression from his face, Mycroft had not expected it either.

“Well, you…wait. What?” Greg sputtered, feeling quite stupid. What was Mycroft talking about?

“There were any number of possible ways to deal with the situation you presented yesterday,” Mycroft said, his face less calm than Greg had ever seen. He watched in amazement as Mycroft’s discomfort flitted across his face. “And yet I chose an option that not only gave your colleagues the impression that you and I would be soon dating, but that gave me the opportunity to…kiss you.”

Greg stared at him for a long time – long enough for Anna to return with their dumplings. “Look, we need to get out of here,” he said to Mycroft. He stood up in a hurry, jostling the waitress as she juggled the plate. “Sorry, Anna, we’ll be back in a bit. Sorry.”

Greg gave Mycroft a look that clearly said, ‘you’d better follow me if you know what’s good for you,’, and walked out of the restaurant. The cool air on his face helped him think, and he walked down the road a little, sensing Mycroft walking behind him. On impulse, he turned into a park, deserted and almost dark. He could see just enough by the streetlight to be able to read Mycroft’s face, as much has he ever could, at least.

“What the hell was that supposed to mean?” Greg burst out. He was a lot of things right now, a swirl of jumbled emotions. Confused and angry and weirded out and the tiniest bit hopeful. “Are you telling me you are actually interested in dating me? Not as a ruse, or for a bet, but really?”

Mycroft, who had stopped several feet from Greg, looked…angry and wistful. How did he manage that? “Yes,” he said simply.

“I thought it was staged.” Greg told him. “You mean you…” he trailed off. “Me?” he asked in astonishment.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied. He stepped forward, just the one pace, and hesitantly as though Greg might reject his action. “Why would I have chosen that avenue when other less intimate options were available?”

“I have no idea.” Greg replied honestly. “I thought you were trying to be convincing, or…” he stopped, then courage or recklessness or stupidity took over, and he finished, “…or I thought you saw that I wanted you to.” He waited with baited breath – was it Mycroft’s turn to say something?

They both remained still looking at the other, and though there were no words, Mycroft did make the first move. A tiny smile, barely a twitch of his mouth, which grew into a shy smile.

As it grew, Greg felt his face mirror it as his heart expanded. Mycroft had wanted to kiss him. Had really, actually wanted to. He watched the smile bloom into brilliance, transforming Mycroft’s often severe moue into muted happiness and affection.

Greg tried to convey the same with his own smile, allowing the pent up and long denied emotion to spill out of every pore, engulfing him and Mycroft. He felt it drawing them in, his steps automatic and matched by Mycroft’s. Neither stopped as they approached; Mycroft cupped Greg’s face again, and Greg’s hands settled on Mycroft’s waist, sliding around to his back as their bodies pressed together, followed immediately by their mouths. It was a sure, strong kiss with no hesitancy on either side, and the deliberate passion of it made Greg gasp, a groan rasping from his throat. How had he missed that Mycroft was like this? He was tender and passionate and Greg could feel the wonder and excitement swirling around them so he couldn’t tell from whom the emotion had even come from, but he knew it was right for both of them.

When he thought he could bear it no more, Greg broke the kiss, pressing his forehead against Mycroft’s for a long moment before shifting back a little, giving himself space to be able to look at Mycroft.

“Christ,” Greg managed.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, his voice equally breathless.

“Dinner?” Mycroft asked, the smile on his face mirrored in the warmth in his voice.

Greg stepped back slightly, intertwining his fingers with Mycroft’s. “Starving,” he replied. _Date_ , he thought to himself with satisfaction and not a little surprise. _Definitely a date._


End file.
